Jake nodded slowly. ‘For what it’s worth, Keith, I did not do this thing.’
‘I was sure of it,’ Keith said. ‘We both were. But you had to be asked. And now we need to know what it is that we’ve got to disprove. The most dangerous thing seems to be your relationship with the dead man’s wife.’
‘Oh, that!’
‘Yes, that.’ A new and unwelcome thought came to Keith. ‘You don’t think this place is bugged?’
For the first time, Jake looked amused. ‘If it was, I’d have told you. I’ve been their consultant for the last seven or eight years, and if there was a bug in here I’d know it. And even if there were a bug, it wouldn’t matter. The police haven’t missed a trick.’
‘They think you killed him for love of his wife?’
‘They haven’t been specific. They’ve suggested that motive, and also that we quarrelled because he decided not to invest in my new project after all. Neither supposition makes any sense, but if we disprove one of them they’ve always got the other to fall back on. I hadn’t seen Neill Muir for more than a month. He was on his retirement leave, and he’d packed up his Land Rover and gone off to unwind. He had a thumping great golden handshake to come and we couldn’t get started until it arrived, but he said that he’d be safe to spend his savings on a damn good holiday around the sporting hotels, picking up a day’s shooting here and there.’
‘And his wife didn’t mind him taking off into the blue without her?’ Keith asked. Molly would never have countenanced such a trip for himself unless he were accompanied by several companions, preferably ordained ministers, whom she knew she could trust.
‘I don’t know whether she minded or not,’ Jake said, ‘but she certainly wouldn’t go along. He tried to interest her in the gentler side of shooting, but he said that it turned out to be her idea of hell.’
‘And, contrariwise, he didn’t mind leaving a sexy wife on her own while he went off?’
‘I think he’d given up caring,’ Jake said. ‘And, frankly, I’d have done the same. That’s why it’s beyond reason for the police to imagine that I’d have killed in order to get her for myself for keeps. I’d have been more likely to kill to get rid of her. All right, so we were having a liaison, but it was strictly sex and no sentiment on either side. It was a lot of fun.’ Jake lowered his voice. ‘Between you and me, Keith, and any bugs that Munro may have sneaked in without my knowledge, between the sheets that woman is the most! But I wouldn’t want her all to myself. I couldn’t stand the strain. I’m not as young as I used to be. Demanding isn’t the word for her.’
‘What is?’
‘I don’t know. Voracious, perhaps. And self-centred. Outside of the bed, or inside it if her desires are satisfied for the moment, she’s a bore. All she can think or talk about is herself and her woes. She’s one of those people doomed to be permanently discontented. At the moment, she misses the big city.’
‘Any particular big city?’
‘I don’t think so. She just feels that life out here among the cabbages is boring and primitive.’
Keith was about to ask whether the lady had seemed to regard her late husband as equally boring and primitive when the waiting constable opened the door. Mr Enterkin returned and took a seat at the table. He raised his eyebrows at Keith, who nodded.
‘Jake admits to an affair with Mrs Muir,’ Keith said. ‘The police know. It wasn’t serious.’
‘Ah. And you are minding my counsel to restrain your tongue?’ Now that his passages were again clear, Mr Enterkin seemed to enjoy using nasal consonants.
‘I’m denying the murder and refusing to answer any questions,’ Jake said.
‘Good. Well, now that the matter of Mrs Muir is out in the open, tell us about it in as much detail as you think fit for general release.’
‘I suppose so.’ Jake paused, and Keith could have sworn that he detected a faint blush. ‘I hope, more for her sake than mine, that this doesn’t have to come out. Well, she picked me up in the hotel bar between two and three weeks ago.’
‘She picked you up, and not the other way round?’ Mr Enterkin asked.
‘Call it mutual. But she was definitely on the prowl.’
‘For you in particular, or just for a man?’
‘Just for a man, I should think. She perched herself up on a bar stool, showing some delicious leg, twiddling an empty glass and smiling faintly at any man who made eye-contact with her. Well, my wife was somebody very special and since she died I’ve made no lasting contacts. But I have the same needs as the next man, and when I’ve been . . . without . . . for a period, temptation becomes very difficult to resist. When I bought her a drink, I had a pretty good idea of what I was in for. I just didn’t expect quite so much of it,’ Jake finished, smiling wryly.
‘Did you know who she was?’
‘Not at the time.’ Jake turned and looked out of the window. They were four floors up and there were no bars. The view over the roofs of Newton Lauder to the hills beyond seemed to comfort him. ‘She made no secret about being married but she never mentioned her married name. She said to call her Estelle.’
‘That is her real name,’ Mr Enterkin said.
‘Is it? I’m surprised. Anyway, we used to meet at my flat because, although her husband seemed to be away a lot, husbands have been known to arrive home suddenly and without warning. Especially husbands of delicious blondes with roving eyes. I’d no wish to be like the lover in the old Glasgow joke, pushed out of the window with a shammy in my hand. I’d no compunction about the husband. If it hadn’t been me it would have been some other unscrupulous sod.’
Mr Enterkin, whose marriage was recent and who still sometimes seemed to carry a faint whiff of orange-blossom, reminded himself that it was not for a lawyer to approve or disapprove of his clients. ‘When did you find out who she was?’ he asked.
Jake’s shrug was a reminder of his mother’s ancestry. ‘Not until the morning of the murder,’ he said. ‘I’ve known one or two other wives who preferred to stay anonymous, so I just went along. She’d come to stay overnight on, I think, three previous occasions, always phoning first to say that she was coming. This time, she phoned the night before. Her husband was at home for the night but was going out early, so she fancied coming along for a morning frolic. I was none too keen, because I’d intended a morning foray against the woodies and I was leaving immediately afterwards for a holiday during which I wasn’t exactly planning to stay celibate. But she was far too enjoyable to break with unnecessarily, so I said to come along early.
‘She arrived at about seven-thirty, I suppose, because it was just beginning to think about getting light outside. We – uh – exchanged several tokens of mutual esteem—’
‘How many?’ Keith asked.
‘Mr Paterson’s virility is not part of the res gestae,’ Mr Enterkin said irritably. ‘If it becomes so, then that will be time enough to explore the matter. Let us just accept that some time was spent in silken dalliance. How much time?’
‘About an hour and a half,’ Jake said. ‘Longer than usual. She didn’t usually dawdle, and I wanted to get away. But, just for once, she wanted to take her time. Then, when we were having a cup of tea and a cigarette and I was wondering how to coax her back into her clothes and away – because the pigeon would be on the move and I wasn’t going to have much time to spare – she suddenly said that this was likely to be her last visit because she’d decided to leave her husband and go to live in Edinburgh. She said that her husband’s retirement was now finalized. She’d hoped that he’d go with her, but he’d decided to stay around here and take a partnership in a local business. She said that she couldn’t stick it out here in the wilds any longer. She made it sound like the Kalahari Desert.
‘What she’d said sounded too much like Neill Muir for my peace of mind. So I asked her outright. She seemed surprised. She dithered a bit and then said yes, she was Mrs Muir.’
‘The widow Muir, by then,’ Keith said.
�
�Probably so. But we didn’t know that. I was a bit stunned to realize that I’d been romping with the wife of the man who was going to put up half the capital for a new venture, but I decided that no harm had been done. He knew nothing about it, and she wasn’t about to do something stupid like offering my name as a co-respondent. I could only thank my stars that she’d made it the last time.
‘I got rid of her just after nine, expressing myself heartbroken of course—’
‘Of course,’ Keith said. The courtesies have to be observed.
‘I got in an hour at the pigeon and then headed south. They nailed me at Gatwick.’
‘You two could alibi each other. But I gather,’ Mr Enterkin said gently, ‘that the lady claims to have been in her own bed at the time.’
‘Does she know that I’ve been charged?’
‘I’m afraid she must, unless her head’s buried in the sand.’
Jake Paterson was silent for a minute, possibly, Keith thought, picturing Mrs Muir with her head buried in sand. Keith had not met the lady, as far as he knew, but even so he found the image intriguing.
‘It’s all right for her,’ Jake said at last. ‘She knows that she can fall back on me for an alibi if anyone should point the finger at her. She would only have to explain that she denied being with me for the sake of her reputation. If I claim that she was with me and she denies it, which she might do . . .’
‘I would prefer that she stuck to her story,’ Mr Enterkin said, ‘but she won’t. The police have a witness who can place her car below your flat that morning. Unfortunately, they know that I know it. Otherwise, that would have been a splendid weapon to smite the lady with in cross-examination. But the prosecution will see that danger.’
‘Well, then.’
Mr Enterkin sighed. ‘Don’t refine too much on your chances of getting out of here on the lady’s say-so. Although, as I said, you two could alibi each other, that will immediately be countered by the theory that either a timing device or a radio link was used. Conspiracy may be alleged. If not, for obvious reasons, you would be the more likely contender. Or is the widow Muir capable of constructing a remote-control device?’
‘She could barely cope with a twisted bra-strap,’ Jake said.
‘There you are, then. The alibi possibility will be followed up, but be prepared to learn that it is a snare and delusion.’ Mr Enterkin looked at the ceiling and cracked his knuckles. ‘Keith, your turn.’
Sometimes Jake was impelled by the impetuosity of his father’s race, but now the gaze which he turned on Keith had the patience inherited from his Jewish mother.
Keith opened the folder in which he was accumulating such material as he could collect and which might contribute to Jake’s defence. While he was finding his place, he asked idly, ‘Why does the man Russell have his knife so deep into you? It’s hardly your fault that he was wrong about your whatsit, and it’s beyond reason to blame you for trying elsewhere after the British fuzz turned it down.’
‘He told me what he thought of my ideas,’ Jake said, ‘and I told him what I thought of his mental ability.’
‘His reaction suggests that you have the more pungent turn of phrase,’ Mr Enterkin said. ‘May that thought be a comfort to you in the weeks to come.’
Jake pulled a wry face and made one of his expressive shrugs.
‘There are two areas I want to cover,’ Keith said. ‘The first one isn’t very hopeful, but it’s got to be tried. On the face of things, it looks as if Muir was out after the pigeon that morning also. But the place where his decoys were found was the last place I’d have chosen, and the setting-out didn’t look very skilled. What’s more, the farmer denies hearing any shots. There’s a chance that the whole set-up had been moved, perhaps because the original place was a give-away to the real killer. So I’ve been traipsing around the hedgerows, looking for signs of decoying. Hides, feathers, empty cartridges and so on.’
Jake was visibly moved. ‘Keith, I didn’t know,’ he said.
‘Don’t bother with that stuff,’ Keith said gruffly. ‘I dare say there’s half a chance you’d have done the same for me. Anyway, I’ve enjoyed it. It got me out of the shop. I’ve even collected a couple of hares. But the point is, I’ve pinpointed a dozen places. Most of them are fairly ancient, though, which fits in with the crop pattern. I mean, the old ones are beside last autumn’s stubbles, which have been ploughed by now. Some of the others I’ve been able to eliminate. In fact, it’s surprising how often I could identify the shooter from his habits, choice of cartridges and so on. The problem is that Muir could have gone twenty miles away, to some favourite spot we don’t know about, and have fallen out with a local man, been killed and moved back nearer home. It’s unlikely but it’s possible, though the timing would be the tightest thing since Minnie the Midget lost her cherry. It might help if you told me where you were shooting.’ He spread a map on the table. It was already marked and annotated with names familiar to Jake.
Jake turned the map round and took a few seconds to orient himself. Then he took Keith’s pen and made a cross to the south of the town. ‘Here,’ he said.
‘Ah. I hadn’t got that far yet. And while I was out I didn’t hear much from the south of me, just the occasional distant popping. There was somebody to the north of me, though. He fired three in quick succession, so unless there was two of him he had an automatic. I haven’t found his site yet, though, so the tidy beggar probably picks up his empty shells. Charlie McLaren, do you think?’
Jake might not have the information which Keith gained through the shop, but he had happened upon most of the local pigeon men in the field at one time or another. He shook his head. ‘He starts work early. So he’s never out before work until later in the year. And Walter Wilson never picked up a spent cartridge in his life. Sounds to me like Watty Dunbar. He shoots on Brightside Farm.’
‘Does Watty have an auto now?’
‘He was carrying a Winchester pump-gun the last couple of times I bumped into him.’
‘He didn’t buy it from me. I’ll ask him why when I follow him up.’ Keith paused and made a note. ‘Who did you hear, from where you were?’
‘One man, firing two at a time. He was some distance away. I’d put him somewhere around Holly Wood.’
Keith made another note. ‘If I can find him, and if he heard you, he might be useful. Not that he can alibi you for a time that seems to matter; but you never know. How many did you fire?’
‘Ten or a dozen. I only got three. My reflexes were slow.’
‘I bet. And then you drove to London at a hell of a lick. No wonder you got your head in a sling. You were using the old gun?’
Jake nodded.
‘In that case,’ Keith said, ‘he may have been able to identify you by the softer sound of your black-powder loads.’ He finished his note and turned to a fresh page. ‘You know about the explosion?’
‘Only what Russell told me while trying to get me to admit to some unspecified activity in connection with it.’
Mr Enterkin cleared his throat. ‘I’ve been unable to obtain sight of the forensic report. Munro’s too nervous to meet me, or even to phone, but he sent his sergeant into the hotel last night on some quite spurious enquiry, and the sergeant mentioned, just by way of casual conversation, that – just as you said, Keith – traces of both gunpowder and modern smokeless powder were found, and in no small quantities.’
‘Muir didn’t reload his cartridges,’ Keith said, ‘so I can’t see any reason for him to be in possession of two different sorts of propellant powders. The question is, Jake, how much of each ought there to be at your place?’
Jake’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You think that was mine?’
‘Who else’s?’
‘Oh. I suppose it was slow of me not to have thought of it for myself. I suppose I ought to say “Oi vey!”?’
‘Or “Begorrah!”,’ Keith suggested.
For the first time, Jake smiled. It was a thin smile and fleeting, but at least it
was a smile. ‘Consider them said. I stocked up at your shop. In fact, you served me yourself. About . . . two months ago?’
‘About that.’
‘As I remember it,’ Jake said, ‘I was down to about my last quarter-tin of each. I bought a half-kilo tin of Black Silver, and two half-kilo tins of Nobel Eighty. Since then I’ve loaded some skeet cartridges for using with my Browning over-under, because I was thinking of having a go at the Club competition next month, and a few black-powder cartridges. I haven’t even finished the old tin of black powder, and I suppose I was about a quarter into the first of the new tins of Nobel.’
‘So,’ Keith said, scribbling, ‘there should be at least a tin of the black stuff and nearly two of smokeless.’ He looked up at the solicitor. ‘Do we know how much was found at Jake’s pad?’
‘I’m afraid we do,’ Mr Enterkin said. ‘Penny reported the sergeant as remarking that no explosives were found. In my innocence I took it for good news. I take it that I was in a fool’s paradise?’
‘Correct,’ Keith said. ‘Jake, could Mrs Muir, on one of her visits, have made off with your tins and some of your empty cartridges? Or anybody else, of course.’
‘Not from my flat,’ Jake said. ‘That’s not where I kept them. My flat’s only two rooms, and I like to keep it ready for visitors. There used to be a small room spare among the workshops behind my shop, so I took it over for gun work and loading.’
Keith was scowling down on his notes. ‘But that’s a high security area, right? You took me in there to show me the installation before you sold me my alarms. Who has the keys and the code? That overweight female who insults your customers for you?’
Sauce For the Pigeon Page 7
